


Time and Patience

by Vafabean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Time Turner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-06 02:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vafabean/pseuds/Vafabean
Summary: Hermione Granger had a Ravenclaw thirst for knowledge, a Hufflepuff's sense of loyalty, the cunning of a Slytherin and the bravery of a Gryffindor. She could see where and how she was needed, and what she must become. All she needed was time and patience, or so she thought.





	1. A Twist of Time

Time and Patience

Chapter 1. 

With a twist it was fixed, with a twist, a life was saved. Mostly, however, that twist powered her through an extra class or book. There was so much to do. There was so much to learn. 

Professor Dumbledore had seen her hunger for knowledge and the truth in her desire to better herself. He had gotten permission from the Department of Mysteries himself for her time turner. Professor McGonagall appeared to have had some reservations in her presentation of it, but Hermione swore she would use it dutifully. And so she had. 

By the end of her third year, she had completed eleven classes and she should have added 160 hours to her life. That was less than a week. Truthfully, it should have been barely noticeable. Nights had crept up on her though. Ambitions of better cited and more thoroughly researched work drove sleep from her mind. Evenings brewing in abandoned classrooms doubled over late nights in the library studying. A twist always seemed to allow her the ability to catch up. 

This quickly became most nights, however. An early morning twist brought the night back, and with it an empty castle. Abandoned classrooms and secluded corners of the library afforded practice spaces that not even Peeves would think to disturb. With this twist, Hermione could spend the night with Hogwarts, trailing her fingers along the walls as she sought that seclusion. They awoke together, filtering the morning sun through lead glass windows and equally leaden thoughts. 

Hermione was as diligent in her documentation as she was in her citations. Every twist was marked in a small brown book. The date, time, starting point, what she had been doing, and what she would be doing were faithfully recorded to avoid “crossing streams.” That joke always made her chuckle to herself. Her father would have laughed as well if she could have told her parents about her little habit. That was simply out of the question. Book and attached retractable pencil were shrunk and placed on a shorter chain. Secrets are best worn close to the heart. 

By the end of her third year, she found herself closer to fifteen than she should have been.


	2. Muggle Magic

Chapter 2

The summer had been different. Hermione had dutifully returned her time turner to Professor Dumbledore at the end of the year. She had been caught up in the chaos of Sirius Black’s escape, Professor Lupin’s truth and the revelation that Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew. Overwhelmed, she had removed the chain without a second glance. 

Hermione had compromised with her parents and spent the first two weeks of the summer with them. Truly, she missed her home, her parents. It had been well over a year since she had seen them at this point. She missed their love and the attention afforded an only child. In a way, she even missed doing things the muggle way. 

The week passed by in a whirl of shopping, home cooked meals and evening conversations about her studies at school and her parent's social network at home as well as new political and technological developments in the muggle world. Perhaps they could sense it, the growth in her. Hermione had always been an exemplary child. Her reading and writing scores had easily surpassed that of her peers. Perhaps they wrote her advanced maturity off as that which was expected of a student of Hogwarts. 

Hermione’s year had been a crash course in development, with the trials of puberty coming at her at double speed. Her period, once a monthly bane, struck almost twice a month with her turning. Her hair grew at lightning speed and the aches in her hips, legs and budding breasts went far beyond the strained exhaustion induced by her training. Brassiere shopping with her mother had been one of the first things she had done upon arriving home. The talk about her becoming a young woman had been delivered over an afternoon cuppa, and her mum was more than assured that it need never be repeated. 

It was perhaps her parent’s new personal computer that perhaps fascinated her the most. 

“I’ve even made you your own account, Hermione. I know that electronics don’t work at Hogwarts, but perhaps one day they will catch up to speed. This will be the future of communication.” Her father had said. She agreed. Who in their right mind thought delivering urgent news by owl was effective? 

“I understand that this does not appear relevant to you, but your mother and I feel it is important that you remain some contact with the technology of the non-magical world. That way there will always be a place for you here in the workforce.” 

Perhaps, but perhaps there was also an advantage to be found in using muggle technologies as a witch. She filed this carefully away back in her mind for further debate. 

In the evenings, her father showed her around the computer, teaching her to format a floppy disc and access the word processor. He told her about how he and her mother were using it to grow their dental business, keeping all of their files in “the cloud,” as he called it. Best of all, was the encyclopedia, Encarta. There was so much information at her fingertips. This merited further exploring, she thought to herself. Imagine what I could do with this at Hogwarts. 

Richard Granger’s motivation may have simply been to keep his daughter up to date. Perhaps also, so like his daughter, he only knew how to communicate via sharing or debating information. He may have wanted to show his daughter that there was magic to be found here, in the muggle world. Jean Granger had watched from the sofa with a glass of dry white wine, thinking past the scientific journal in front of her. Her daughter had grown up away from their eyes and she couldn’t quite place what had changed. 

The first week passed in a flash and soon Hermione was packing again, ready to leave for the Burrow. Her mind still whirling from exams, the end of the school year, and these two weeks at what she now referred to in her mind as her childhood home.


	3. Burrowing In

At the end of the school year, Hermione had dutifully returned her time turner to Professor Dumbledore at the end of the year. She had been caught up in the chaos of Sirius Black’s escape, Professor Lupin’s truth and the revelation that Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew. Overwhelmed, she had removed the chain without a second glance. 

Now, however, it felt like she had lost a limb. She lost her freedom to wander the halls of Hogwarts without the constraints of sleep. Naturally introverted, she lost those hours of the day when others slept, when it felt the world was hers alone.

The withdrawal hit almost as soon as she settled into the Burrow. Energy, usually in overdrive, ran through her veins. After a year of almost two lives, how was she supposed to survive two months in the shared third-floor bedroom of a toppling house?

Mornings became her escape. Used to less sleep, she rose early. A run around the edge of the property drained her of that energy that had built up during the sleepless nights. No magic meant more frustration. She could feel it bubbling up in her, reaching for everything in her proximity; an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. 

Summer with the Weasley’s was very different from that of the Granger Household. First, there was the noise. It could only be described as a racket. From the ghoul in the attic to the gnomes in the garden, the house radiated commotion. 

She rose early, dodging Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen making breakfast for twenty. “Growing boys and girls need their protein,” she had stated, glancing not unobviously at her thin frame. 

Mr. Weasley rose for work, hitting his briefcase on possibly run along the stairwell. Hermione finally understood why that thing seemed to look perpetually worn. By then the house was abuzz with teenagers.  
“Who’s in the bathroom. They’re taking forever!”  
“Muuuum where are my socks?”  
“Oh, have you seen the paper? The World Cup is going to be bloody amazing, ‘Mione.”  
Mrs. Weasley turned from the stove with a sharp inhale and a threatening eggy spatula. “Ronald Bilius Weasley, we do not say bloody in this house.” She sniffed lightly and muttered, “At least not by this hour, we don’t.” 

Truthfully, it made her want to continue occupying that one bathroom until she knew everyone was safely in the kitchen. It was better to be the first one there though. Last to come would almost certainly fall victim to the twin’s pranks. From her seat in the far corner, she could watch the whole room over a book until her attentions were called for. 

“Irelan’ vers Bulgaria! Jhusht imahgin” Ron stated to no one in particular around a mouthful of toast. His gesticulations caused a clump of jam to fall worryingly close to her book. She shuffled it over without looking up, hoping that if no one engaged him, she has a hope of not being spit upon.  
“Ron, has anyone ever told you to say it, not spray it?” Inquired Ginny.  
“Ginny!” Mrs. Weasley was aghast as if this sass was somehow something new from her youngest. “Fred, George, what have you been teaching her?”  
Mornings meant homework done in relative peace or half-heartedly performed chores. Lunches brought a break in the silence. Afternoons were spent in the sun. The Burrow was simply too small to contain them all for the day. Instead, they spilled out on the lawn with books for Hermione and brooms for the Weasleys. 

This summer, Percy had graduated and moved to a relatively unimportant (though certainly not if you asked him) position at the ministry. With Bill at Gringotts and Charlie in Romania, that meant that the Weasleys were final at even numbers for a two on two Quidditch match. As Ginny stepped up amidst Ron’s grumblings about missing Harry, her hair shown in the sunlight. Her eagerness to not simply prove herself, but wipe the grass with her brother had stolen across her features. Hermione admired her determination. 

Thinking to herself as she watched them fly, she wondered how she could focus her own frustrations, her own determination. There must be a way to use all of this frustration with her magic, her worries for the future and determination to be more. She would find it, she told herself. She would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read *a lot* of fanfiction. I have tried to incorporate some of my favorite ideas from them. I will do my very best to cite them and give appropriate credit where credit is due. If you see something you recognize, chances are it doesn't belong to me. I love this community and just want to contribute/celebrate all the fun stuff it has produced.


	4. Breathe In, Breathe Out

Chapter 4.

And with that thought, came her little brown book. While not necessary for the regulation of her time turning, it had a familiarity to it. As if, simply by grounding her thoughts and providing a place for her to document them, she was doing something. This was how the lists started. Spell ideas. Weapons. Defensive techniques to research. Goals that she wanted to achieve with her own spellwork.  
  
It was so disorganized, though. She felt like she was missing the ideas that worked best for her; as if she wasn’t approaching development in the most logical manner. How should she break it down then? By purpose? By situational use? By alterable existing magical devices? By things based on muggle products? There were simply too many possibilities.  
  
_Remembralls, sneakoscopes, revealers, cloaks of invisibility, the sorting hat… anything could be enchanted!_ Again, her frustration with herself rose. There was so much she didn’t know. Things the Weasley children accepted as commonplace still surprised and delighted her. Other objects such as magic wands and flying carpets had seemed only to be a dream until a few years ago. She has worked so hard to catch up. She had been so certain that if she could simply memorize _Hogwarts, A History_ , along with all of her other textbooks, she could find the acceptance that muggle society had never shown her. Young, logical and determined as she was, Hermione could not begin to properly grasp the extent to which her mannerisms, her very way of existing alienated her from wizarding society. This homestay with the Weasleys, however, had made this somewhat obvious. She would simply need to work harder.  
  
As her frustration built, so did her determination. _There is so much wrong with wizarding society, from the horrifying abuse of house elves to those bloody leaky quills that would go and ruin a perfectly good essay before you could blot. Why couldn’t wizards draw from muggle advancement?_ She thought back to things she had talked about with her parents earlier in the summer. This year, Nokia had released a cellular telephone. It was cordless and could call someone from anywhere that had cellular service. It could fit in one hand and would certainly be very handy in an emergency. That said, she didn’t quite understand how it worked and was certain that the wards surrounding Hogwarts would disrupt the service.

That was another thing, wards. She had read about them in _Hogwarts, A History_ , of course, but she had heard about them in her _Introduction to Ancient Runes_ as well. Wards must surround everything. How else were they sitting on the edge of Ottery St. Catchpole in Broad daylight on flying broomsticks without the police being called on them?

The lists continued. She had not had such unfettered access to wizarding parents before. What questions that she could ask them? What could she learn about wizarding life while here? More than degnoming gardens, she was sure. Judging by the share of household tasks she and Ginny were being given, there was certainly a patriarchal dichotomy in place in the home. _Oh dear lord, is she trying to raise me to be a proper “wife”? Is that what being a wife in the wizarding world entails?_

Even at that moment, Hermione, aged as she was by the time turner, her life as a foreigner in this magical world, and the sheer quantity of books she had read, did not see Molly Weasley’s obvious desire that she be the one to settle down with her youngest son. That was, however, for the best.

The evening brought tables to be set, dinners to prepare and fireflies to chase as the sunset and the family wound down together. Games of exploding snap and wizarding chess were brought out as the older members of the family talked in pairs, while the youngest fought sleepiness.

Feigning a yawn, Hermione made to go upstairs, inviting Ginny with her. It was obvious that Ginny was hesitant to retire for the night. She made her excuses to stay later and later. She played games, she bathed late, and she put off sleep until it could no longer be resisted. Even then she slept fitfully. This tugged at Hermione’s conscious, sitting on the edge of her thoughts though remaining unprocessed.

Hermione had come up earlier. She took the time to sit cross-legged on her bed, attempting to meditate. It seemed to be the most effective way to ground her energies and frustrations. At school she might be going to sleep now, looking forward to turning back in the morning or planning a night’s strategy of studying with the intent to sleep when the morning light arose. She needed to settle into this schedule, and in order to do that, she must settle into herself.

With that, she sat. Eyes closed, breathing in and out. She sought to clear her mind. She inhaled. She exhaled. Remembering the yoga tapes her mum popped in the VHS every morning, she tried to feel her breath move through her chest. She tried to relax from her fingertips to her toes, remembering the feeling of the grass beneath her outside.


	5. Something There

As a child, she had read about the magic of nature, of the earth. It certainly seemed magical, what with dewdrops and fireflies. She imagined the stories of her youth, with Tinkerbell-like pixies pollinating the flowers and ice skating along snowflakes. It was easier to picture this than some kind of a different “earth magic.” She had always felt more in tune the grounded nature of earth magics, having never cared for roller coasters, airplanes and now broomsticks. _Perhaps earth magics would be something to put on her lists. No! No lists! Clear your mind._

She inhaled and exhaled, banishing the memory of the chorus of lively Weasleys to the background and focusing on the feelings of this afternoon. She could almost sense the sun above her. Warm and damp from the dewy grass, she felt… right. There was something there, between the warmth of the sun and the cradle of the earth. It was almost as if the right breeze could pick her up and free her. She could hold on to this feeling of being so warm and safe.

It was, admittedly, not her usual refuge. The library at Hogwarts, the fire-warmed leather clad den at her parents, even the drawn hangings of her four-poster all held a different, darker warmth. Crimson and gold, velvet and leather, they warmed. Books could wrap around her, snug as bed covers, all burning bright with knowledge. And still, she sought this place in the grass to simply be in her mind.

Hermione Granger, however, was not truly someone to sit, silently and think of nothing. The very notion bothered her. Her mind needed doing. Naturally, she had a to-do list here as well.

Arriving at Hogwarts a Muggleborn in 1991, Hermione Granger was not precisely the student for which the program was designed. That said, Hermione Granger had yet to find a program of education that was designed for her. New challenges arose. Baffling challenges of a social and political nature arose to meet a twelve-year-old who had thus far combatted everything life threw at her with facts. By knowing the facts, by knowing the rules, she could best them all. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the rules were very different.

As an outsider, Hermione found stark differences in the societies. In many ways, Hogwarts remained in the dark ages. Women dressed more conservatively, social customs and status ruled interactions, old professions lost to the muggle world seemed to flourish. At the same time, there was also simply a lack of logic, and every ring in every planner Hermione had ever owned, said that that would just not do. The why of things was often left unanswered; assumed to “be”. That was not enough for Hermione Granger.

She wanted to know and the only test subject she had was herself. Truly, in an ideal world, she would have a sample size divisible by three, but Hermione did not see Harry and Ron cooperating with her through this. Thus she needed to know herself. That took time, which reminded her that it was in fact no longer on her side. This inspired anxiety and the drive to simply plan better and do more. She must be able to do more. To do so required a more skilled mind. She must remember more information, have better control of her magic and have more control over her mind.

And so she sat on the bed, delving further into herself. She had begun with her brain. Top to bottom, perfectly logical. She needed a better order; control. She tried to visualize her knowledge. _Where is information?_ She thought. She liked how it was in that program her father showed her. _What if I could have my own encyclopedia, the Hermiopedia_. Perfect. She still needed a visualization. She started with the library at Hogwarts. Perhaps her own mental Madam Pince would be the perfect ward to shoo anyone out. But no, that was too illogical for her purposes and to easily searchable for anyone else. She tried picturing library from her favorite childhood film, Beauty and the Beast.

Curling balustrades, everything in perfect order, leather bound and smelling of real parchment. She could slide on that ladder to the second floor around the room. Yes, perhaps that would work for now. And with that, Hermione mentally sank into the overstuffed chair that appeared by the imagined fireplace.

**Author's Note:**

> Just starting out on this. First fic. All [constructive] feedback is appreciated.
> 
> To note, I have read quite a lot of ffn and would like to include some of my favorite ideas that I have come across in this story. I will do my very best to credit these appropriately so that you too can enjoy the awesome stories they came from.


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